


Rosy

by sasha_b



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-08
Updated: 2011-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-21 03:38:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/220490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Oh my love is like a red red rose</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Rosy

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt: Five times Erik made Charles blush, and the one time Charles made Erik blush. I have used several of these scenes in different ways before; thanks for reading them again.

**1.**

They float, bobbing in the water, and Erik’s mind is awash in sensation – his own creation, not the mutant’s (the other mutant; that concept is enough to twist his brain into knots he has no idea how to untie) in front of him. _Charles Xavier_. He shivers uncontrollably; can feel the sub getting further and further away, and bites down on his own lip, hard. The bloody taste is soothing.

He follows the other man up the ladder to the boat, and they’re ensconced shortly together in a stateroom that’s obviously not seen any visitors save military personnel for a while. The other man – Charles – is sipping coffee, his face steaming, milky white skin flushed with the heat of the drink. His teeth chatter as his blue eyes search out Erik, who can feel the man – Charles – pushing at his mind, uninvited, but he stops short at invading.

“Just ask. I might tell you,” Erik snaps, his wetsuit not doing anything anymore to keep him warm, his hair dripping down his back in icy streams. Charles’ stutters an apology, reaching out a hand, and his mug tips and falls toward the floor –

Erik’s fingers spread and the metal container halts in midair. He floats it back up to the other man, who catches it with ease. They stare at each other and finally Charles sighs, his face heating, the flush like a rose that’s opened too early in spring.

“I’m sorry, Erik.”

The sound of his name rolling off Charles’ tongue is familiar, comforting –

“You already know it all.”

“It will be alright, Erik.”

Somehow, Erik wants to believe him.

 **2.**

The kitchen at the outpost large and drafty and the only thing palatable Erik can find is a week old bottle of malbec that he hopes isn’t vinegar yet. He carries the thing to the table, and sits quietly, all movements precise, no extraneous twitching or moving or breathing or thinking. His mind is a compound bow, firing accurately each time, finding the target, aim - _thwack_.

Each time, the goal, Shaw. The arrow, Erik Lehnsherr.

He drinks directly from the bottle. Charles must be around this place somewhere; Erik wonders where the other man is, but dismisses the thought when a noise alerts him to

“Charles.”

“Erik,” the other man flops bonelessly into the chair opposite him, his hair sliding into his face, his soft (yet destructive) hand rising to push it back. He grins and reaches for the bottle. Erik lets him, head cocked, his eyes pinning Charles to the table, a bug stretched under a glass dome, reflected, examined.

What is this man, with the extraordinary power he claims to never abuse? And who is Erik now that they have touched – bonded –

So fast. So unreal, and Erik licks dry lips and the target (Shaw, always Shaw) in front of him wavers, hazy. The arrow spins in midair, wobbling.

Charles upends the bottle and drinks the malbec, the rich red sliding over his lips and forcing his eyes shut. He stops when there’s about half the bottle left, and wiping his lips, shoves it toward Erik. He laughs, blue irises so _blue_ as to compete with that day’s sky, and the pink of his cheeks glowing as though he’d scrubbed too hard with his washcloth.

Erik silently stands and leans forward, his hands braced on either side of the chair he’d been sitting in. “The CIA’s new mutant division. A brilliant plan, as we have so many humans on our side.” His sarcasm is meant to be withering.

The clock in the kitchen ticks loudly as Charles rests his chin in his hand, drunken face hot, the skin appearing loose and smoother than a baby’s. “They will learn, Erik. I swear it to you.” He smiles and stands as well, stumbling only a bit over his chair. He laughs again, and Erik feels _comfort_ and _giddy_ pushed at him. Charles is happy; happy to have a focus, happy to be of some help where he is needed, happy to have Erik there –

“You know why I’m here, and it’s not to play nursemaid to a bunch of humans that hate us.”

He turns and leaves Charles in the kitchen, but not before catching a glimpse of that youthful face, flaming and red and _embarrassment_ floats around Erik like a rain cloud, and he wonders if he’s the only one that can read Charles so easily. And yet Charles never backs down, never changes his ideals, never reverses anything or any decision. He stands behind his _embarrassment_ and his _comfort_ and _happiness._

Strength. Charles has it like no one that Erik’s ever known, even perhaps himself. He swallows a retort, and makes his way to the foot of the stairs, turmoil roiling inside, the target in his mind changing shape and color, the blue of Charles eyes omnipresent and unavoidable.

 **3.**

The room is warm and quiet, and Erik sits, still and solid, in the chair that almost swallows him across from Charles. His clothing and hair are fastidiously perfect; a direct contrast to Charles, who plays as though he’s losing everything, his entire body and soul pushed into the game. Erik finds that infinitely fascinating, and doesn’t hide his examining Charles’ as the other man leans forward, a triumphant look on his face.

Charles moves his piece and sits back, smiling, cheeks rosy, hair in disarray from his combing fingers through it. Picking up his half empty glass of port, he drains it and smiles brightly. “Your turn.”

Erik picks up his piece and in one fell swoop has put Charles in check. He sits back, crossing his arms, cool and poised, the sharp teeth normally hidden behind his slash of a mouth (Charles tells him he’s all predator, with only half a laughing tone) flashing as he cocks his head.

The blush starts from Charles’ neck; it creeps up, branching out (Erik imagines he can almost see it sliding through the other man’s veins and wonders if he’s blushing down to his feet) over his chin and nose and cheeks – Erik’s teeth show again as he imagines how much Charles must hate this. He slips forward in his chair, the red of the other man’s face daring him to _touch_. Would it be as hot as it looks?

“Damn you.”

“Pay attention to the subtleties, Charles.”

Still Charles’ smiles, despite the agony and embarrassment he projects – he’s so open with Erik, which is something Erik’s not sure he can handle even now – and shoves a hand through his lank hair again. “Rematch. Now.”

A twist of his lips and Erik’s setting up the board again as Charles pours them both more to drink.

 **4.**

“You know, I believe that true focus lies somewhere between rage and serenity. Would you mind, if I…”

Erik shakes his head minutely; Charles touches his temple and

 _mama._

Erik wants desperately to close his eyes; to force this away from himself, to not see it, and _Mein Gott I can feel her hand on my face_ yet he wants this more than anything in the world, more than revenge, more than Shaw. That is shocking and makes his gut and heart twist, and yet he feels the tears fill his eyes but lets them slip down, unashamed, even as Charles’ inhumanly huge eyes well up as the other man approaches him, slowly letting his fingers drop from his temple. His nose and cheeks are true flowers and flare brighter, flushing with blood, when Erik asks him _What did you just do to me?_

“…when you can harness all that, you’ll possess a power that no one can match. Not even me.”

Erik moves the dish.

His shark smile is broad and he’s terrified for he feels every bit that he can do this, with Charles’ help. He _wants_ Charles’ help, he needs the other man, and he finds that he can be what he might have been had Shaw not destroyed the boy before Erik could grow into the man. Tentative, so tentative. He looks at Charles, exhausted, laughing, bent but not broken for the first time and he feels something expand in his chest and it’s like he can’t breathe but it’s a good thing. A great thing.

He wipes the last tear from his face and leans in toward Charles when the other man touches his shoulder and tells him he’s done well. Erik believes it, and he knows Charles believes it too. What can they do, what can they become, with the support _love_ of the other?

He’s terrified all over again, but he won’t push it away, because Charles is still smiling and still red cheeked and Charles slips an arm over Erik’s shoulders as they turn to the satellite dish again. Erik leans against him and thinks on things he’s forced into a tiny metal box inside his brain since he was a child and realizes maybe he’ll share them with this man.

 **5.**

He’s not surprised that Charles is waiting for him in the dark library; Erik’s brought the book back he’s borrowed, knowing they’re going to war tomorrow, and he respects the words between the pages and wants to make sure they’re back where they belong before he’s left the house. Probably for good, but Erik doesn’t think like that. He reacts to things – and he’ll judge what tomorrow will bring when tomorrow is there. He’s scared again, but that boy’s voice is not louder than the man’s who has learned how to move a satellite dish and who can lift a submarine from under the water’s crushing weight. There is no possible, no maybe there; he has made up his mind, and he will follow through on Charles’ plan. His plan. Their plan, together.

He shelves the book and turns and Charles is there, in front of him, and he allows the other man to slowly push him up against the bookshelf, the spines pressing into him, making indentations through his thick turtleneck and into his skin. He wants to remember Charles like this, marking him in a way only Charles can, words, thoughts, books and chess and the single tear the other man cried for Erik in compassion.

He allows Charles to touch his face and does not jerk away, the long fingers in his hair soothing and he shuts his eyes and raises his own hands, questing for –

Charles’ skin is hot to the and Erik knows what it looks like without being able to see the redness blooming in his cheeks, almost as if the other man is sick. He runs a single finger over Charles’s eyebrows, down his nose, the blush there too, drawing the digit over his full lips for the first time. Erik’s stomach tightens with the desire to have those lips on his, to possess Charles’ body the way the other man already possesses Erik’s mind.

 _Erik_ slides through his brain matter, caressing and echoing and Erik shivers and draws Charles to him, their mouths meeting not with the crescendo of a thousand horns but with a tremulous single whole note, a portend of things to come.

 **1.**

The children having been thoroughly chastised, Erik walks away first, catching Charles’ “…expect more from you,” as he enters the door of the compound that leads to their rooms. Moira is fuming; he doesn’t have to be a telepath to get that. He thinks he should find it funny, but in all this time, in all his life, he’s never had anything but his own name to mark him (Kleiner Erik, Stupid Erik, Weak Erik), and the mere idea of _nicknames_ or _code names_ or whatever in the Hell the children want to call it…

Moira moves on with Charles as Erik finds his way to the nearest bathroom. He pulls the door to; leaving it cracked, and turns on the little light and leans over the sink, staring at his face in the mirror.

“Magneto.”

He says it outloud, rolling the word around in his mouth.

He raises his hands, and twists the light fixture to face him, lifts the razor and cup that sit on the sink, and affects a serious expression, eyebrows drawn in, mouth tight, eyes sparkling with power and depth as he turns his hands upward, the light giving a terrified shriek as he moves it more.

“You like it.”

Ah, yes. But of course he’s not alone.

He doesn’t look at Charles, who’s leaning on the doorframe and smiling as though he hasn’t a care in the world. And then – Erik feels the hated flush rise through his neck and land in his cheeks as though it’s a mosquito come looking for the biggest blood supply around – lighting and buzzing in his face and bringing yet more blood to the surface. He lowers his hands and the light fixture returns to normal with a flick of quick fingers.

He finally chances a glance at the other man, and slowly, calmly, shoves past a grinning (from ear to ear even) “Professor X” and he’s back out into the hallway and up the stairs to ignore this moment of inanity and to plan his next thought and goal.

He can hear Charles laughing even as he shuts his bedroom door.

“Bastard,” he swears, uncharacteristically. The word isn’t tinged with anger, however, and he finds his own smile growing through the rosy cheeks he touches with his hands, his sigh soft and long suffering and he shakes his head even as the laughter that bubbles up comes loose from his chest, short and succinct and strange.

He likes it. The blush fades and Erik sits on the bed and rolls the word _Magneto_ through his head until the dawn pinks the sky and the curtains in his tiny room.


End file.
